


The Ties That Bind

by round_robin



Series: Tumblr Prompts [15]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Background Relationships, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Gwent (The Witcher), Kaer Morhen, Piercing Injury, Winter At Kaer Morhen, character injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Collection of gen prompts from my tumblr.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Series: Tumblr Prompts [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739158
Comments: 64
Kudos: 147





	1. Care for A Round of Gwent?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the collection of gen prompts from my tumblr, there maybe be relationships in here, but they're not the focus. Most of these are cute little stories that take place at Kaer Morhen, some are a little angsty, but in the end, it's all about the Witcher family taking care of each other <3
> 
> First prompt was from araglas1989: Lambert is a prick and will insult you to show he cares, but if he doesn't talk, he doesn't trust you. Essentially Jaskier slowly wearing Lambert down with the power of friendship.
> 
> Rated T for salty Lambert

“Just so you know, Lambert will probably ignore you,” Geralt said. He’d been doing this for a few days. Every since they reached the foot of the path to Kaer Morhen, he slowly contributed facts and small warnings about his family. Vague at first, “Witchers aren’t very friendly.” Yes, Jaskier knew that one. “You’re staying in my room.” Yes, he knew that too, they’d been sharing a bedroll for two years, it would be odd if Geralt suddenly banished him to a guest room all winter.

The explanations got a little better as they got closer to the keep. “Vesemir is an amazing cook, you won’t want this winter. It gets a little lean after a storm, but there’s good hunting, we can always bring in game. Eskel likes poetry, you’ll have a lot to talk about.”

It actually got to the point where Jaskier felt he knew these Witchers before he met them. Snuggled against Geralt’s chest at night, the inhuman warmth keeping Jaskier from freezing in the mountain air, Geralt whispered more stories into his hair. “Vesemir will like to hear you play a little while he cooks, he enjoys some of the older songs you know.”

Jaskier smiled against his neck. “I’ll be sure to take requests.”

Now here they were, at the bottom of the last hill, the keep in sight, and Geralt mentioned Lambert for the first time. “Alright,” Jaskier said, moving closer to Roach as the path got narrower. The wind died down this morning and the last bit of their trek was more tolerable than he thought, he was aching to be inside though, in front of a warm fire, with a warm bowl of stew in his hands. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Right. The thing is, Lambert’s an asshole. But a good asshole.” Geralt frowned at his poor explanation. “You remember how long it took me to trust you, Lambert’s like that... but _more_. If he starts insulting you, that means he likes you.”

“Alright,” Jaskier said again. Thinking back to the beginning of their friendship, when Geralt refused to call him by name, barking ‘BARD!’ across a crowded tavern instead, leaving him behind if he took too long waking in the morning. Oh yes, he’d seen that brand of Witcher prickliness before. “I think I understand.”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t say anything else and they continued up to the keep.

Just as Jaskier expected, the cold died down as soon as they crossed the walls, the strong old stones keeping the wind and chill at bay. When they finally reached the doors to the keep proper, an older Witcher stood there waiting, hair gray from time rather from his mutations. He nodded to Jaskier, then smiled at Geralt. “Welcome home.”

They shuffled inside and greeted each other, Geralt leaving Jaskier to his own devices for the moment, which Jaskier was perfectly fine with, he loved watching Geralt in this castle, in his _home_. A wide smile bloomed across his face as he spread his arms open wide for a Witcher in a red tunic—Eskel. Clapping each other on the back, they leaned their heads together, eyes falling closed, breathing as one for a moment. As soon as they pulled apart, another Witcher greeted Geralt, this one wearing black, his dark hair slicked back—Lambert.

“Good season, Wolf?” they all grunted to one another, exchanging yet more tight hugs.

Finally, Eskel’s eyes turned to Jaskier. “Vesemir said you were bringing a guest.”

“Yes, Jaskier, come meet my family.”

Vesemir and Eskel were warm and welcoming, but as soon as he turned to say hello to Lambert... he was gone, nowhere in sight. Geralt shrugged and grabbed their bags. “I told you. Come on, my room’s this way.” He followed Geralt and got their things settled.

That night at dinner, Eskel talked with Jaskier about Oxenfurt, his classes and old professors, Vesemir talked to Geralt about his year on The Path, and Lambert hopped from conversation to conversation, never once addressing Jaskier or looking at him.

When the plates were cleared, stomachs full, Geralt stood up. “Normally I’d stay and play cards, but I think we better turn in. Mountain was hard.”

Jaskier didn’t want to be the one to say it, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. He leaned on Geralt as they left the hall, wishes of good sleep following them... but nothing from Lambert.

The next few days were much the same: settling in, finishing last minute chores. Vesemir set Jaskier to work in the kitchen sorting herbs. He heard boisterous voices echoing from the hall and turned towards the door. Lambert’s voice was as loud as the others, as he joked and mocked them, “Fuck, Geralt, get a new belt, if I have to see your ass on that scaffolding one more time...” As soon as they walked in, Geralt and Eskel were still laughing at whatever story they were telling, but Lambert’s face was suddenly blank. He sat down next to the cooking fire and grabbed a bowl of the day’s stew for lunch.

Geralt pulled Jaskier close and kissed his temple. He didn’t want to let it bother him, but it felt odd, being completely ignored by one of the few people he’d have contact with this winter.

“He likes Gwent,” Geralt said that night, his arms wrapped around Jaskier. They were sticky and sweaty from their lovemaking, but not quite ready to clean up yet, simply basking in the afterglow. “Lambert, give him a challenge and he might start insulting you like he does the rest of us.”

Jaskier was _excellent_ at Gwent. The next day, Lambert walked into the kitchen and dropped another basket of herbs in front of Jaskier, then turned away without a word. “Geralt said you play Gwent,” he said lightly, starting to separate the leaves from the stems the way Geralt taught him. No one liked stems in their food.

Lambert stopped and looked over his shoulder. “So?”

Shrugging, Jaskier pushed the basket aside, sliding his deck across the work top. “I have a John Natalis I’m willing to play for.”

Lambert almost turned around. Almost. “Where the fuck did you get a Natalis from?”

Jaskier tried not to smirk. He got Lambert to speak, a little, but a little was enough. “Maybe I’ll tell you tonight. If we play.”

After a moment of thought, Lambert grunted, “Fine,” and stalked out of the kitchen.

That night after dinner, Geralt arched an eyebrow when he saw Lambert sit in front of Jaskier, then smiled when the young Witcher pulled out his Gwent deck. Even if Lambert hammered Jaskier into the ground (which was a possibility, Geralt knew his bard was good, but Lambert’s deck was a beast) it might get him to open up a little, stop treating Jaskier as an interloper. Eskel sat down on Lambert’s other side, and even Vesemir leaned in close, everyone focused on the game.

In the end, it wasn’t even close. Jaskier bit back his smile as he crushed Lambert in the second round. “Sorry, no Natalis for you...”

“Fuck.” Lambert slammed back, almost tipping the bench, and scooped up his cards, stomping from the hall, spitting and cursing as he went, “Stupid frilly fucking bards, loading the deck like that. Shouldn’t play with the card you’re betting...”

Just as Jaskier started to panic (did he just make things worse?) Geralt lay a steadying hand on his arm. “He’ll cool off, then challenge you again tomorrow night. Don’t let him win, make him work for it.”

Lambert challenged Jaskier to a game after dinner every night for a week. He saw him during the day, after training and chores were done, sitting near the fire, tweaking his deck, trying to figure out how to beat Jaskier. It wasn’t always a thrashing, Lambert almost got him a few times. Finally, after eight nights, eight losses, Jaskier’s eyes went wide when he noticed it... he was backed into a corner, no way out.

He didn’t make them finish out the third round, simply handing the card to Lambert. “Sly fucker,” he mumbled.

Lambert smirked, tucking the Natalis into his deck. “Thanks for doin’ business, come back when you have better cards.” He packed up his deck and headed to bed, whistling while he went.

The next morning, Jaskier slept in, wrapping a heavy fur around his shoulders and shuffling down for breakfast, Geralt always left something warm for him. They were all out doing repairs and Jaskier sat alone, eating his somewhat gloopy oatmeal. The door shot open and he jumped a little. Lambert stomped in and sat down, snagging the last of the oatmeal.

They ate in silence for a moment, then Lambert said, “Your fucking boyfriend doesn’t know how to patch a wall to save his life. Dropped a brick on my foot, so I left him and Eskel to figure it out.”

“Mmm, yes, Geralt is very clumsy. Wanna hear about the time he elbowed me in his sleep and almost collapsed my lung?”

“Ha! Yes I fucking do.” While Geralt didn’t appreciate Jaskier telling embarrassing stories, he was happy his family was getting along with the bard, and so was Jaskier.


	2. Jumping Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What's wrong?” Geralt asked.
> 
> Finger shaking, Jaskier pointed to a spiky plant at the edge of the path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for Geralt finding out what a Jumping Cholla is. I live in the SW so thankfully I did not have to look it up, because yikes. I renamed it a Jumping Dragon plant for flavor reasons.
> 
> Rated G

“Whoa! Geralt, no!”

Jaskier threw his arm in front of the Witcher. The motion alone wasn't enough to stop him, but the suddenness of it all made Geralt stop and blink. They weren't in danger, he would've seen it long before Jaskier did. They were on a road, that was it, just a normal road. “What's wrong?”

Finger shaking, Jaskier pointed to a spiky plant at the edge of the path, a good twenty feet ahead of them, how he saw it already was anyone's guess. “We need to avoid that at all costs. It's a Jumping Dragon.” A shiver ran through him. “A few years ago, I was in Beauclair for a ball, and some prankster planted a few around the palace gardens. Guests were shrieking when the spines launched at them. Ugh, I still have nightmares about it.”

Though Jaskier was prone to drama, the shiver that passed through his entire body was very real. Geralt looked at the plant again: angry and spiky and he definitely didn't want Roach anywhere near it. “Alright, we'll find a way around.”

Jaskier's shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you, Geralt, you're a true prince among men. I think I saw a fork a little while back.” Jaskier navigated them back on the path for half a mile before they found the split. It seemed a long way to go to avoid one plant, but Geralt trusted Jaskier's fear. Humans were highly attuned to what could kill them, and given Jaskier ran towards the kind of things Geralt also ran towards, his fear of the Jumping Dragon seemed worth heeding.

They headed on their way, the odd plant forgotten for the moment.


	3. Snap!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter was definitely the best time for pranks on the instructors, so many bodies in the castle, they couldn't trace a scent as easy. Winter was when Lambert did his best work, nothing fancy, swapping out the sugar for salt at the breakfast table, cutting notches in the legs of some of the older chairs. But this winter, he set his sights on Geralt and Eskel. They were the prank kings? Bah, it was laughable. Lambert felt they needed to be taken down a peg or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angry-cajun-lady requested baby Lambert pulling pranks. Mentions of Geralt/Eskel/Lambert in this one, along with Geralt/Eskel, but since the ships aren't the point of these fics, I'm not tagging for them.
> 
> Rated T (for salty talk)

Pranking a Witcher was difficult, they had all the advantages—strength, speed, enhanced senses that could catch a trainee a mile away—so most of the boys played pranks on each other. It was a way to pass the time, find a little fun in the oppressive world they all had to live in. But Lambert, Lambert reached for the fucking moon. He went for the instructors and sometimes, he got a hit. Nothing that would shake the rafters of the old place, but still solid pranks.

There were stories, rumors of the _legendary_ Geralt and Eskel's escapades as trainees. “Did you hear they tied a jug to one of those fucking forest bees? What fucking masters!” If Lambert had to hear about the fucking forest bee one more time, his eyes would roll so hard, they'd fall out of his head.

Winter was definitely the best time for pranks on the instructors, so many bodies in the castle, they couldn't trace a scent as easy. Winter was when Lambert did his best work, nothing fancy, swapping out the sugar for salt at the breakfast table, cutting notches in the legs of some of the older chairs (the ones that were about to break anyways) and watching an instructor hit his ass on hard stone. But this winter, he set his sights on Geralt and Eskel. They were the prank kings? Bah, it was laughable. Most of the stories were tales of them trying to outdo each other instead of joining forces to rile the older Witchers. Lambert felt they needed to be taken down a peg or two.

For once, he had the advantage. This was his castle (whether he liked it or not) all year 'round, they were only back for the winter, and they always shared a room, easy to catch them together. It was just a trick of getting assigned firewood duty, delivering stacks to the rooms that would soon be occupied by grown Witchers. Most of the rooms looked the same—utilitarian bed, stone walls, fire—but Geralt and Eskel were the golden boys, they were allowed the same room every year and decorated it with a few trinkets. It was easy to find once all the bedrooms were aired out for the season.

After stacking the wood, Lambert reached into his pocket and laid the rest of his trap. Sure, he got a kick to the backside for taking too long, but it was so worth it. Even without enhanced Witcher hearing (which he'd have soon enough, if he survived...) he knew he'd hear the evidence of his prank as soon as they found it.

Geralt and Eskel arrived the next afternoon, their hair a little more ruffled than the usual trek through the Killer suggested. Smug bastards must've met up and started winter early. If there was one thing Lambert wasn't looking forward to, it was the sound of a hundred Witchers fucking and moaning all season long, didn't need enhanced hearing to pick up that noise. It was worse than the trainee dorms sometimes.

After their usual greetings, they headed upstairs. Lambert was in front of the fire with Leo and a few of the others, a large botany text held between them. Though the common areas were more crowded in winter, the instructors believed in body heat to keep the castle—and the boys—warm. “Haven't lost a single trainee to cold in fifty years,” Rennes always grunted. “Not gonna fucking start now.” So winter was nicer for them, they were allowed to be closer without shrewd, ancient eyes judging them; puppy piles and the other small comforts they were allowed, happened anywhere instead of tucked away in the secrecy of their dorms. It actually wasn't half bad now that Lambert thought about it.

He leaned in closer to Voltehre and felt the warmth of his best friend. Not really reading the botany book, Lambert listened...

“Ah! Fuck!” Geralt's shout rang through the halls loud enough for even the sleepiest old Witchers to look up and take notice. Lambert had years of practice at hiding his smile, but even he couldn't suppress his small giggle.

Geralt came pounding down the stairs. “Who the fuck made our bed!” He turned around, showing the mouse trap firmly attached to his breeches, pinching a bit of ample flesh as well. Fuck, he didn't even have time to right his shirt, it hung off his shoulder, the laces of his breeches were partly undone too. Did they not even look at the bed before trying to fuck on it?

There was silence in the great hall for a long moment, then, a wheeze of laughter from Rennes. Vesemir joined soon after. “That's what you two get for not looking before you fuck!” Vesemir laughed.

Geralt grit his teeth. “I'm not out in the woods about to sleep on a snake! There shouldn't be booby traps in our bed!”

“Well, now you know for next year,” Rennes said and dismissed Geralt with a flick of his hand. Geralt growled again before storming back out of the hall.

As soon as he was gone, the boys all burst into a fit of laughter, their botany studies forgotten. The master Witchers let them go for a moment before the glaring started. When the hall calmed down again, Rennes' quiet, even voice mumbled above the chatter, “Don't do it again, whoever it was.” Why did Lambert get the feeling Rennes knew exactly who put the mouse traps in their bed?

* * *

Lambert was dead tired, always was as soon as he reached Kaer Morhen. Despite the terrible memories—of his youth and the battle, watching the home he detested destroyed in front of him wasn't as cathartic as he thought—Kaer Morhen was his home, and every year, he came to rest his head with Geralt and Eskel, sharing their warmth, their bed and their love for the season. All things considered, he was pretty lucky, but he'd never say that out loud, not in a million years.

He stopped at his room first to put his things away, but the bed looked so fucking comfortable, he couldn't resist a quick lie down...

_Snap!_

There was a pinch at his side and a sharp pain. He jumped up like he was sitting on a nail. “The fuck?” A mouse trap, cleverly hidden in the folds of the blankets, was now attached to his side, grabbing what little flesh he still had there after the long year. “Ow, shit, what the fuck...”

“I knew it was you!” Geralt called from his doorway, glaring at Lambert as he fought with the mouse trap. “I fucking knew it.” Head held high in the gratification of vengeance, Geralt swanned off, no doubt to tell Eskel of his success. Free of the mouse trap, Lambert shrugged. Alright, the White Wolf could have this one... But the next time, the war was _on_.


	4. "Hold him down while I take care of this."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaer Morhen had survived so many things over the years: trainees climbing the walls to escape and carving footholds in the mortar; mages playing with dangerous magic in enclosed spaces; the fucking invasion that almost killed them all... And yet, she still stood, her stones as strong as ever.
> 
> Lambert was apparently trying to change that fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from little-red-riding-doublet, "Hold him down while I take care of this." Warning for character injury in this chapter, along with a piercing injury (as in, the skin is pierced with a foreign object, not like a decorative piercing). Everyone is fine, but Lambert blows himself up... just a little.
> 
> Rated M (for injury and harsh language)

Kaer Morhen had survived so many things over the years: trainees climbing the walls to escape and carving footholds in the mortar; mages playing with dangerous magic in enclosed spaces; the fucking invasion that almost killed them all... And yet, she still stood, her stones as strong as ever.

Lambert was apparently trying to change that fact.

The entire keep heard the blast, Geralt out training with Ciri, Eskel up in the library, and Vesemir taking a nap in his room, they were all startled to attention, freezing for a second before running towards Lambert's work room. Vesemir got tired of tripping over his still in the middle of the great hall and banished him to one of the old bedrooms with a mostly together roof. “Blow yourself up in there!” he grumbled. Well, Lambert apparently took his words to heart.

“Ciri, stay out here!” Geralt shouted as he wrenched open the door. It was half way off the hinges as it was. Eskel was right behind him while Vesemir held onto Ciri, she was a good student, but her want to help overtook her common sense, they needed her to stay back at the moment, make sure Lambert wasn't actually dead.

“Lambert!” Eskel called, waving away the acrid green smoke in the room. The blast broke open one of the boarded up windows, so it was venting. Glass crunched under their boots and they frowned at the remains of Lambert's still, but that wasn't what caused the explosion.

After he had a work room of his own, Lambert moved his other operations in: his bombs and his potion experiments. He was always trying to make them better, less toxic but more effective. Vesemir thought he was crazy but they all left him to it, if it gave Lambert a sense of control over who they were, what they were forced to become, they didn't see the harm in it. Not until now.

Shifting the splintered wood of Lambert's work table, Geralt shouted when he found Lambert, bruised and bloody on the floor, shards of glass around him, and— “ _Fuck_ ,” —sticking out of his arm. Hazy eyes blinked open, peering around the room. They had one chance, Geralt sprang into action. “Eskel! Hold him down while I take care of this!”

Eskel fell in at his side, kneeling on Lambert's chest to pin him to the floor as Geralt grabbed his injured arm. The glass shard looked like half a fucking flask, and it was cutting through the muscle, it would heal, but the arm would be weak until spring... good thing it wasn't his sword arm.

Lambert's eyes fully opened, but he didn't have time to take in his surroundings before Eskel pressed down on him, pinning him in place. “Eskel? Ah, fuck, what's—” Geralt took hold of the glass and yanked, before Lambert could notice what was happening. Pain coursed through his arm and he screamed before blacking out again.

Out in the hall, Geralt heard Ciri whimper and softly cursed himself. They checked Lambert over for other injuries—more of the same, cuts, bruises, nothing as bad as half an alchemy set piercing his skin—and Eskel carried him out, taking him upstairs while Geralt comforted Ciri.

Kneeling in front of her, he bumped their foreheads together. “Lambert's going to be fine. Sometimes we need to hurt to help, but he'll be alright. I promise.” She nodded, and though her lip quivered, she didn't cry. That little girl was too tough for her own good.

Leaving her with Vesemir, Geralt made his way upstairs to help Eskel patch Lambert up. Once he was covered in clean bandages, they sat and waited, ready to give him a word about volatile chemicals in closed rooms...

* * *

Lambert's eyes blinked open a few hours later and he groaned. “Ugh, fuck, what happened?”

“You almost blew yourself up, that's what happened,” Eskel said, lips turned down in a frown. “Scared us half to death and probably gave Ciri nightmares for the next week. The fuck were you doing?”

“The kid saw me? Shit.” Lambert pushed his head into the pillow and lifted his good arm to cover his eyes. “I'm sorry, I was... ugh, it doesn't matter now. Can I see her?”

They both looked at Geralt. He was silent so far, brooding in the corner. Finally, his eyes flicked up at his brother, his stupid, careless, but still alive brother. Geralt stood from the chair and walked over to the bed. “You apologize to Ciri, tell her you'll never do it again. Alright?”

“He can't with the state of his work room,” Eskel said.

“It'll take me the rest of winter to rebuild the still,” Lambert said, earning himself a glare from them both. He held up his arm in surrender. “Yes, alright, I promise. Send her in, if you think I'm decent enough.”

Geralt looked him over—no blood leaking through the bandages, bruises already starting to heal—and nodded. He opened the door and Ciri bounded in, launching herself onto the bed. “Lambert! I thought you were dead!”

“Ugh, nope, I'm still here.” He wrapped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze, closing his eyes. “Sometimes full grown Witchers make mistakes too, but don't worry, I won't do it again.”

“Good,” she mumbled into his neck.

Lambert sighed and squeezed her tighter, holding his niece close. His project, it was a fool's errand, it was never going to work, but Lambert had to try... all winter, he'd tinkered with Swallow, trying to make it work for humans. Work for Ciri. She was training to be a Witcher, and given all the other bullshit in her still very short life, her future would be full of injury and pain. Lambert hated being a Witcher, hated that he had to poison himself to heal, but fuck, if he could make something to keep his niece from getting hurt... It was silly. It wouldn't work anyway. But fuck he wanted it to, he'd do anything for her, even blow himself to Zerrikania.


End file.
